#sorry brad-brad u aren't around | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pollyna · 2 years

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Ron isn't a violent man. A dick, an asshole, prone to have more negative than positive things to say? Yes, yes and yes. But he's far from being violent. Said so there are limits he can't bare and alcohol isn't an excuse to not peak when someone isn't interested. They got back that morning from the USS Layton and they have been drinking at the O-Club for hours because they're all home and safe and they deserve a fuckin' break. Him and Ice? They're double, if not triple, celebrating. Winning Top Gun, getting back from the mission and scoring the men, in this case the woman too, they were mooning over for almost three months? If that doesn't call for a celebration what does?

Ron is dancing, Carole between him and Goose, and oh he can't thing of a better place to be and better people to be with. When Carole kisses him it taste like the Sherry Temple she ordered two hours before and then Goose tastes like beer and rum and yeah, he's probably dead and in heaven because there's no other explanation.

At least until a no from a voice he knows to well takes him back to earth. Someone, some fucking civilian, has Ice the wall and he's trying to kiss him. Ice who never drinks too much because he hates loosing control of the situation and who was dancing with Maverick the last time he checked. Ice who's been smiling all night and kissing Pete every two seconds because apparently drunk Ice means affectionated Ice and Mav was beeming under all that attentions, face red as a tomato and happy as a kid. Ice who's is kicking the civilian in the balls and punching him in the face because, just as Ron, he isn't a violent person but, differently from Ron, he knows how to land a punch or two. The civilian who looks pissed enough to not realise the man isn't alone and when he find himself a couple of inches from the ground he can't help himself to do anything else but screaming oh the fairy has friends! Ron would like to say he throw the final punch, he really would. Just like Mav would like to say the same but the first is still have the dude from his left underarm and the second is focused on Ice. But Carole, Carole has her hands free and she just swings her right first in his face and the dude is done. Ron barely notices letting the dude go because he has to check on Ice and wants to kiss Carole because such a badass sweetheart and he wants to ask Goose to take them home because he needs to get f-

In which order all of it happens is still a mystery the day after because Carole kissed Goose while Ron was checking on Ice and then Ice was hugging him and kissing Maverick at the same time and Ron is pretty confused on how that was possibile considering how tall he is and how tall Maverick isn't. Then there was another drink, some of the expensive shit only Ice could ever bother spending his money on, two distinctively different hands on his ass and Maverick was fussing over Ice a hand southern than he could ever be comfortable thinking about and one directly under the other man shirt. And, the morning after, there's a soft materass under his back, Goose is spooing him and he's spooning Carole, the house is silent and the headache is killing him.

Carole drove Ice and Mav home before us murmurs Goose in his ear so mine and your best friends are safe and we can sleep. Don't open your eyes Ron, sleep please and so he does.

now in fic format: here.

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luveline · 8 months

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you're writing for bradley!! i am so so excited!! could i request just some domestic fluff with shy!reader and bradley? maybe her coming home from a long day and he's just the perfect boyfriend with a glass of wine and a hug ready for her? love u gorgeous 💗

thank you for requesting, babe, I absolutely adored writing this and him, let me known if you have any more!! —bradley helps you feel better after a bad, long day with wine and a multitude of hugs. fem!reader 1k

You push into your apartment, a ground floor slotting of sandblown terracotta tiles and wooden shutters weakened by termites, and pause. There's something wrong, a humming sound.

You take a step back toward the door and slide your phone from your pocket.

Hi Bradley, where are you? I think somebody has been in my apartment. Should I worry? you text him. You've continued a streak of politeness with him even now, too shy to dip into the familiarity you feel when he's holding you close over the phone. You follow it up quickly. Don't worry, I'm sure it's okay. Do you know what time you'll be coming over? Any time is OK.

"It's me!" Bradley calls with an easy chuckle. Couch springs creak as he jumps up, and a second later he appears in the living room doorway with a frankly breathtaking grin, shoving his cell into his pocket. "I'm coming over right now. Holy shit, would you look at you?"

You hold your bag closer to your side, hair not nearly as neat as it started that morning, the day's chaos etched into the small wrinkles either side of your eyes. "Me?"

When he smiles, it's all white top teeth and joy. For someone who's been through so much, and who works so hard, he's a shaken bottle of fizzy happiness whenever the moment allows —you barely have time to put your bag next to the rack of shoes (and there, his shoes you must've missed toed off and perfectly aligned with your sandy flip flops) when he's crossing the hall in quick strides and pulling you into an ecstatic embrace.

"Hey," he says, kissing your cheek, moustache not scratchy but far from soft. It rubs a wonky trail as he kisses without goal. Kiss on your nose, your cheek, close enough to your eye to make you cringe and back away.

"Hi, Brad," you say breathlessly.

You need time to prepare yourself for seeing him usually, his sudden closeness catching you off guard. You struggle to make any sense of how much he likes you, but you've given up denying his attention. You want it too badly.

He doesn't stall at your obvious (embarrassing) flustering; he doubles down. His arms like steel cords behind your shoulders, Bradley noses at the side of your face, his breath warm on your cheek as he says, "Sorry, I thought surprising you might be nice, but I didn't think about your nerves."

"My nerves," you say.

"Your bad nerves. You're flighty." He gives it another press, the straight line of his nose digging into your cheek before he pulls away.

Bradley doesn't give you time to miss his arms around you. He makes for the kitchen, notices you aren't following, and grabs your hand. Tugging, he takes you into the kitchen and elbows open your refrigerator, revealing a better sight than what you'd seen this morning.

"I had to go out again when I saw your fridge," he says, ducking down to push aside what looks like the makings of your favourite meal to unearth a pretty bottle of red. "Sweetheart, when you said you had a shitty breakfast, I was picturing, like, half a grapefruit. Did you eat anything?"

He only knows what you'd texted him, shitty breakfast code for the found half of a cereal bar in your jacket.

You don't like to text Bradley too much in case you put him off, but today was bad, and you know he doesn't mind. He'd told you so only a few days ago. His hand full of your stomach, hot under the collar, you can't remember what you'd been talking about initially, your memory intricately busy remembering the planes of his tightly muscled torso and the feeling of his weight atop you, but suddenly he'd been leaning down, brown eyes pleading. "You can talk to me," he'd said. "About anything. I want to hear it. You know that, right?"

So you texted him somewhere around lunch time and had been delighted to find him puttering around doing a whole lot of nothing. He's been keeping himself busy on leave, staying fit, helping your elderly upstairs neighbour put together her new chest of drawers between half marathons and surfing, regular dreamboat stuff.

I think I'm having a bad day, you'd said. What are you up to, Brad? Can I still see you tonight?

Why do you act like I'm not obsessed with you? he'd text back immediately. Kidding. Kind of. What's wrong? Can I bring you lunch?

Raincheck on lunch? I don't think I'll have time. I'll explain later if that's OK. Miss you.

Miss you too, baby. I wanna hear all about it tonight.

You blink up from his hands to find him staring at you worriedly. You're in your own head, exhausted and a little muddled after such a long day, and he clearly doesn't like it.

"Is wine gonna make you feel worse?" he asks, tapping your thigh with his knuckles.

"Definitely not," you say.

"Before dinner?"

Your smile turns sheepish. You want the wine much more than the dinner, but if you get both, you won't complain.

He leans back against the fridge, arms crossed, the neck of the wine bottle held precariously in a confident hand. "Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"I will be." You take a brave step forward and look up into his face. It's difficult to grasp what it is he sees in you when he's like something out of a movie, all brains, brawn, and bleeding heart. You don't get it, but he wants you, and he's here. "Thanks for coming over, Bradley."

"This shtick again?" he asks, raising his brows.

"This shtick again," you repeat, grinning at the implication.

He hooks your ankle with his. "Thanking me for coming over is like thanking a fish for swimming. Couldn't stop myself if I wanted to."

Your laugh is a wheeze. Brad does you the generosity of pretending you've made a more intelligible sound and pulls you in for a one-armed hug, rubbing a rough up and down into your side. It's such a nice feeling to be tucked up under his arm that you can almost forget how badly you want a glass of wine.

"Want the big glasses from the top shelf?" Bradley asks knowingly.

"Yes. Please."

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